The Trouble With Ghosts
by Amarth Obstreperous
Summary: Scion: Hero fanfic.  The Visitation and first adventure of a young Scion of Hel.  Because if you're going to be goth, having a death queen for a mother is a pretty valid reason.
1. Setting the Scene

Chapter 1 – Setting the Scene

Helen Thomasina Cole was eighteen years old, and she didn't know who her mother was. This had been truth forever.

Her paternal grandparents had never met the woman, and didn't approve much of Helen's existence anyway. But they died before Helen was ten.

Whenever Helen asked her father, his already pale face would grow whiter, and sweat would bead at his temples, running down the sides of his pudgy face.

When she was little he'd tell Helen that her mother (also named Helen) had been a fashion model, who'd left him after a few months and only returned nine months later to drop Helen off. But as Helen got older, Thomas Cole would grow even more agitated when the question came up.

"Y-you kn-know about h-her!" He'd say. "I-I've t-t-told y-you already!"

Helen's father always stuttered when he was really afraid. Mind you, there wasn't a day that _something _didn't terrify the man, but precious few things frightened him into a speech impediment. One of them was the idea of Helen's mother.

Sometimes that thought made Helen feel like laughing hysterically. She never did, though. It wasn't actually funny.

So her mother was a model, and apparently a heartless bitch who'd named her baby daughter after herself, then foisted her off onto a squeamish father.

Other than that, Helen had nothing. There were no keepsakes, no old clothes or jewelry or anything. Her father liked to keep the two-bedroom apartment squeaky-clean, and free of any clutter.

Helen's retaliation, once she was old enough to rebel, was to coat her floor in clothes and other items. She hung posters haphazardly on her wall, and strung Christmas tree lights across her ceiling. Her father refused to let her burn incense or candles, but he finally stopped calling her room 'the old guest room'. Which was good. Helen's room was not for guests. It was her domain.

It didn't take many years of life for Helen to realize her father was afraid of her. Well, not afraid per se…the man was a spineless worm, but he was also an IRS drone, which gave him an understanding of power. No, Thomas Cole was not petrified of his daughter. But he was distinctly uncomfortable around her. He startled when she spoke, barely looked her in the face, and avoided her as much as possible.

Helen wondered sometimes how she hadn't died from neglect as a baby, bereft of physical affection and subject to a father who was unable to look at dog shit on the streets of New York City, never mind handle diaperfuls of baby poop. Thomas Cole _had_ hired a nanny, a black woman whose round face and giant eyes Helen only vaguely remembered. But the woman was gone by the time Helen was four, and preschools and kindergartens took over. Apparently, Helen's father hadn't liked the nanny very much.

Helen thought for a while that her father might be afraid of all women. But he was easily frightened and intimidated by men, too. The only people he acted superior to were taxpayers being audited…and to Helen, when she did something that disturbed the cleanliness of the apartment.

Otherwise, Thomas Cole tried not to pay attention to his daughter. And Helen gave up trying to get him to notice her early in her life. After seeing one's father bullied by a man half his size at a gas station, your respect for and the need to impress him dwindle somewhat.

The only time Helen interacted with her father was at dinner, when he would tell her about his workday—or rather the files he had gone over. Helen wasn't particularly interested in taxes, but it was a subject that came surprisingly easy to her, and her father got excited when she demonstrated a knack for it. So he'd explain the daily auditing cases, and quiz her on protocol. Doing annual tax returns became more of a holiday in the Cole household than Christmas.

Thomas Cole kept hinting that Helen would make a good auditor, but aside from dinner and a couple days each year, taxes were not the focus of Helen's thoughts. She had been a cynical child, haughty, but sardonic enough to keep from growing a stick up her ass. And when she hit puberty she found the Goth style to be exactly what she wanted.

So Helen dressed herself in black clothes, studded jewelry and fishnet stockings. She wore boots, painted her nails black, and covered her face with makeup. The makeup became a necessity more than just aesthetically pleasing…at age thirteen; she began to break out in bad cases of acne. She tried pills, cleansers, even went to a specialist, but nothing worked. Oddly enough, the zits only appeared on the left side of Helen's face. Eventually Helen gave up, and covered her face with makeup every morning. After every shower, she popped her biggest zits in front of the mirror, watching the pus and blood ooze down her face. She also picked her scabs.

Helen had never had many close friends, but like her father's distance, this grew to suit her. As a child she disturbed her classmates and teachers, even when she hadn't done anything. It made her wonder if it wasn't just her father's spinelessness that made him edgy around her. Maybe she actually _was_ unsettling.

As Helen got older, though, she developed enough of a presence to overcome people's first impressions. She gained a series of acquaintances: friends she was not close with, but whom she could seek favors from, and spend time with if she didn't feel like being solitary. Her high school career was fairly pleasant in this manner. She got good grades, and graduated with honors. Her father wanted her to study economics at his alma mater, but Helen put it off, not really liking the idea.

So Helen grew into a Goth beauty queen…not particularly angsty, but a bit angry, and with fair amount of contempt for most things. She could usually persuade people to see her side of things, and refused to do anything she thought was below her. She wore pretty clothes and jewelry of the gothic persuasion, but her half pock-marked face and her very presence seemed to unsettle people.

She still didn't know who her mother was.

TBC

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	2. The Ghost

The next chapter, up and at ya.

Chapter 2 – The Ghost

It was a cool night in New York City, on the eve of June 2nd. The wind was soft and pleasant, but smelled wrong, almost sickly. Of course, in New York City this was attributed to pollution, and easily ignored.

Helen Cole slept in her bedroom, the window propped open two inches with a book. The dull white curtains rippled slightly. Helen disliked them (she also hated the cream colored carpet) but her father insisted: the basics of the room stayed.

That said, the room clearly belonged to a teenager. Posters of various rock bands and Goth artists and Tim Burton movies were tacked up around the room. Christmas lights hung from the ceiling, and a lacquer jewelry box stood open, full to the brim. The CD collection stacked by the stereo was impressive, and while the cream colored floor was clean; this was due to a recent trip to the drycleaner's. For the most part, Helen's clothes were scattered across the floor.

Helen was sleeping comfortably in a Peter Murphy t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms covered with skulls. The drone of the city was a soothing lullaby, as it had been for eighteen years. She didn't wake up when her door opened slightly. Neither did she wake when a necklace, a bit of black cord with a small bone figurine hanging from it, appeared in thin air. Slowly, the necklace floated towards her, and dropped over her head.

Helen still didn't wake. But she did wake when a man's voice, gravelly and persistent, called:

"Awake, Scion!"

Helen blinked, then sat up slightly. The necklace slipped farther down her neck, and her eyes widened.

Standing in the room was a translucent man. He was clearly visible, but just as visible was the dresser behind him. He wore strange clothes—some sort of brown tunic, with a thick leather belt and breastplate. His boots looked like scraps of fur tied together with twine. There was a battered looking sword tucked into his belt, and a helmet on his head with stubby horns mounted on the top of it. He looked old—his long hair was graying and his eyes were hollow above a thick, matted beard.

Unbelievably, impossibly, the see-through man opened his mouth and spoke again.

"Rise and follow, Scion! Your Mother demands an audience."

Helen screamed.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

The see-through man cursed in some sort of guttural language, made as if to cover his ears, then backed into a corner of the room.

Helen ran out of breath, and heard her father calling from the other room. "What? W-what?!"

The man was still there. Helen screamed again.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

"Be quiet!" The translucent man bellowed. "I'm not here to hurt you!"

Helen's father stumbled into the room, holding a hanger. Helen had never been happier to see him. But as her father cringed unhappily against the doorway and looked at her with sleepy, irritated eyes, Helen realized that her father was the last person you wanted to rescue you from some bizarre apparition. He'd brought a hanger, for crying out loud.

Also, Helen noticed with some disgust, there was a spreading stain across the crotch of his boxers. Her dad had pissed himself in fear.

"Why were you screaming?" Her father said.

Helen looked desperately over at the translucent man, who shook his head.

"He can't see me." The man said.

Helen looked back at her father. He had followed her gaze to the corner, but his eyes were unfocused.

"Can't you see him?!" Helen asked.

Thomas frowned. "Who? Where? There's nothing here."

Helen looked back and forth desperately, between her father and the see-through man. The former looked straight at the latter, but saw nothing.

The translucent man was smirking. "I told you." He said.

Helen looked at her father, and swallowed.

"I-I had a nightmare." She said. "I thought there was someone in the corner."

Her father instantly relaxed, but his face was still full of fearful irritation. "I was sleeping." He said petulantly. "Don't do that again."

Sweat leaking from his pores, her father walked out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Helen looked back at the translucent man, but now she was angry.

"You better explain yourself right now, asshole." She hissed quietly. "I don't look stupid in front of anyone, least of all _him_!" She pointed at the door her father had just exited.

The see-through man sighed. "Of course. How like your mother."

"My mother's not here!" Barked Helen. "But you are, and whether you're a trick or a brain tumor, I want an explanation."

"No trick." The man said. "No tumor. My name is Sven."

"_Sven_?"

"Sven Murgson, bound to your service." The man—ghost?—bowed his head slightly. "Your mother means for me, ghost though I am, to aid you."

Helen scoffed. "What, my mother's some crazy occultist? She keeps ghosts?"

Sven's face turned grave. "Countless more than you could imagine."

Helen felt a shiver run up her spine. The wind from the window had suddenly turned cold.

Neither spoke for a moment, then Helen scowled. "You're fucking lying." She said. "My mother's a fashion model. She dumped me here when I was a baby."

"My Queen—" Helen could not help but notice a touch of venom in Sven's voice. "Took a disguise to have your father sire you. And she left you here to grow as a human, so you would be protected until she came to claim you."

"Helen sat up farther in bed. "What the hell are you talking about?!"

"Hel is exactly _who_ I am talking about." Sven said. "Your mother is the Goddess Hel, Queen of the Underworld, dark lady of the Aesir, half-hideous sister to Titanspawn. And you, Helen Cole, are her Scion. The ichor of a Goddess flows in your veins."

Helen sat back against her headboard with a thump.

This was all too much to take in. And the worst part of it was, in the back of her head, it all made perfect sense somehow.

Sven saw the shock on her face, and shook his head.

"You require further explanations. But what I was sent to do is tell you what you are, then bring you to your mother. Come, she is waiting for us."

Helen looked up sharply.

"My Mother? She's here?"

"Two streets away, in a tavern." Sven frowned. "No, wait. It's a place called a _coffee shop_. Vinland has grown far beyond the stories of Ericsson."

Something clicked in the back of Helen's brain.

"You're a Viking." She said. "A Viking ghost."

Sven looked unhappy. "Much to my shame." He said.

He motioned her towards the door with his hand.

"We should go. She does not like to be kept waiting."

Helen stumbled out of bed. Her mother was here. Her mother had come to see her. Helen had pushed the thought of the woman into the back of her mind, except as a strong curiosity that periodically resurfaced. Viewing the woman as a cold bitch, she'd resisted caring about her. But now, a wave of desire rose in her. Her mother cared. Her mother was here.

But Helen was cautious of her sudden fount of gushy feelings. Steeling herself, she looked at Sven.

"Mind leaving the room, so I can get dressed?"

Sven bowed his head again. "Of course. But do not take off the necklace. It is a gift from your mother. It allows you to see me—among other things."

With that, Sven walked through—not out, but through—the door.

Helen raised a hand to her throat, and found she was indeed wearing a necklace. It was a black cord, tied in a knot, and from it hung a small white figurine. It was heavy, and felt like bone.

Helen switched on her night table lamp, to get a better look in the light. She saw then, that it was definitely bone—carved into the face of a man, screaming, his features twisted with horror.

Another chill went through Helen, but when she dropped the necklace back against her chest, it felt comfortable. Right, somehow.

She began to shuck off her pajamas. There was no time to paint her whole face, though a bit of eyeliner would be good. Her mother would just have to see her as she was, zits and all.

But that didn't mean her ensemble would be bad.

TBC

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	3. The Visitation

Sorry my updating is sporadic. Just so you know, there's about seven chapters of this story, so it's not over until it ends with 'The End'.

Also, in the Scion game I played this character in, the GM ruled that it was okay for a Scion whose god had only one or two purviews to take a few extra, provided they made sense.

Chapter 3 – The Visitation

Ten minutes later, Sven walked through the glass wall of a small coffee shop, and Helen followed him in through the door.

She was unnerving as ever, but dressed up pretty. Helen had done her best on her eyes, with black shadow, eyeliner and mascara. She'd also put on a touch of black lipstick.

She wore a long-sleeved shirt with an embroidered rose across the chest, and a fishnet wool sweater over that. Her black skirt was short, but ruffled, and her stockings were a lace pattern, ending as they disappeared into calf-high black boots.

Her favorite black satchel was slung across her chest, and she had rings around her fingers, silver bracelets on her wrists, her lucky gold safety pin in her right ear piercing, and a spiked collar. And of course, the bone necklace.

The coffee shop was nearly deserted, except for a few sleepy customers near the front. Odd for a summer night in New York City—midnight wasn't exactly late.

And the customers barely looked up when Helen walked in. In addition, the skinny guy with the green apron seemed to be on autopilot, jerkily mopping the floor behind the cash register.

Sven gestured Helen to the back of the coffee shop, and Helen saw a woman sitting there.

She was tall—you could see that even though she was sitting down—and her back was very straight. She cupped a coffee in one hand, her fingers thin and white, her nails black and beautifully manicured. She was thin, but with alluring curves. She wore a satin dress with fluttery sleeves down to her elbows, and spiked high heels. Her skin was pale, and her inky dark hair fell in waves down her back—except for a few locks, which drifted across the left side of her face.

Helen walked towards her, and her mother turned to look at her. Helen sucked in a breath.

Her face—it was a perfectly lovely face, with high cheekbones and dark eyes—but at the same time Helen felt a sudden urge to vomit. Something was wrong about this woman—very wrong.

Helen kept her eyes focused on the right side of the woman's face. It seemed more natural.

Slowly, Helen walked over to the table, and sat down across from her mother. She had a nervous feeling in the bottom of her gut. She liked to be in control—but this woman had the control. This woman was a Queen.

Her mother, Helen—Hel—studied Helen's face closely. Her irises were pitch black. After a moment she sat back, and nodded.

"You're quite well." She said. Her voice was melodious, but as eerie as her face. "I was afraid you'd turn out fat."

"My Dad's fat." Helen said. She gripped the strap of her satchel.

Hel smiled, but it was more like a sardonic grimace. "I know." She said. "I was there. It wasn't very pleasant. Mind you, being fat isn't a problem. But I prefer things a bit more…gaunt."

"Then why did you date him?" The words were out of Helen's mouth before she could think.

Her mother frowned slightly. "I never 'dated' the man. I used him…to get you, as a matter of fact. We Gods must have our Scions, mustn't we? A child of mortal flesh, with the divine ichor of a god in your veins, making you smarter, stronger, prettier, _better_. You have no idea how much potential rests within you, Helen. No idea."

"As for why I chose your father…he was weak. I repulse most men, so it's difficult to stay with them. _He _was afraid to leave me, no matter how much I frightened him. And after I threatened him, he was too afraid not to raise _you_, no matter how much you disturbed him. Your father is a coward, a sniveling craven, who jumps at shadows and is easily dominated. The sort of man who dies in his bed, far from any battlefield."

Hel smiled. "That's the most useful sort of man."

Helen's mouth had dropped open. Her mother cocked her head to the side, looking almost curious.

"Something on your mind, darling?" Hel asked.

Helen was silent for a moment, then willed herself to speak. "I…all these years, I thought you were a coldhearted bitch who'd abandoned me. Now I've met you, in the flesh…and you're more of a coldhearted bitch than I ever imagined. You're like…like the_ Goddess_ of ice-crotch queens."

Hel looked surprised for a moment. Then she laughed. It was not a pleasant sound, but somehow it felt soothing to Helen.

"Hee-Hee-Hee!" Hel giggled. "Oh, you're a sharp little thing. I like you. I bet you've made people _squirm_."

"It's your fault." Helen said. "You're bothering the hel—the heck out of me. But _I _do that to other people."

Hel nodded. "I'm sure you do." She reached out, and stroked her index finger down the left side of Helen's face. It was cold as ice, but Helen didn't flinch.

"These pustules are only a small part of it—a mimicry of my true power." Hel gripped her daughter's face gently, but firmly. "I'll show you. Hold still—"

Helen spasmed suddenly, and opened her mouth to scream. No sound came out, but she tumbled off her chair. Oddly enough, her butt didn't hit the floor. She found herself elegantly crouching, flat on her two feet.

Slowly, Helen stood up. Her knees were shaking.

"Sorry to muffle you, darling." Hel said. "But I knew you'd scream, and we can't have that happen. This _is_ a public place. Well, sort of."

She gestured around the shop. Sven was sulking in a corner, but the other patrons had barely moved.

Helen sat back down in her chair. "That face—" The looming monstrosity, half pink skin and gorgeous hair, half rotting corpse, maggots crawling through the teeth and cheek. "—That was you. What you really look like."

Hel sniffed. "I assume you learned _something _about mythology in school."

"They taught us Greek legends—"

Helen's mother scoffed loudly. "The Dodekatheon. Boy-lovers and Virgin Princesses, every last one of them. But important allies. Did you learn anything of the Aesir?"

"What?"

"The Norse Pantheon. The Dodekatheon are Greek and Roman. There are six pantheons around and about these days. We Norse gods are the Aesir."

"Oh…" Helen looked around. "A bit. Um…there was a God called Odin, he had an eye missing—"

"Crooked son of a btch." Hel said. "Go on."

"Um…Freya?"

"Pretty, empty-headed whore everyone wants to marry." Hel rolled her eyes.

"Loki?"

Hel's eyes lit up. "Ah. That's your grandfather. He's a cunning trickster. Don't trust him or his Scions, you never know what they really want."

Helen let out a short, half-hysterical breath.

"Jesus. This stuff is all really real." She twisted her hands around her satchel strap. "There are gods, all sorts of gods, and my Mom is the queen of the Viking underworld!'

Hel took a sip from her coffee cup. "It's a wonderful domain, dark and glorious. And every inch of it—every soul—belongs to me."

She gestured towards Sven. "You see him? He was a farmer. Went to war only a few times in his life. Always longed for more. And had he died in battle, he would have become Einherjar, one of the immortal warriors of Valhalla."

Hel smiled. "But instead, he fell off a plow and broke his neck. He has been mine ever since."

"Wow." Helen said. "That sucks. Unbelievably so."

"Quite. But he's one of my gifts to you." Hel pointed at the necklace Helen wore. "Just like that."

"It helps me see the dead, Sven said." Helen replied.

"Yes…the Bitter Coward. And you could walk through a riot, and be a cloud of calm amidst the chaos." Hel said. She reached into a black leather bag at her feet, pulled something out and placed it on the table. "There is also this."

Helen reached forward to pick up the small half-mask that lay on the table. It was made of burnished black wood, light but very sturdy. There were painted white lines coming from the eyehole, stark against the dark wood.

"Hidden Beauty is its name." Hel said. "Place it over the right side of your face, and you will see in the dark better than any beast. And if you look at the moon, it will show a birds-eye view of the world around you. A veritable map."

Helen raised the mask, and put it over the unmarred side of her face. It fit perfectly. She felt an electric current, a strange tingle, move through her. And the shadows in the coffee shop were suddenly less pronounced.

She lowered the mask in time to see her mother place a long knife, sheathed in leather, on the table.

"Whoa." Helen said.

"This is a _hadseax_, for your protection."

Helen made a confused face. "What? Hadsix? Had sex? What?!"

"It's nothing magical…simply a long knife." Hel said. "I expect you will not need to use it much. I am the sort who would intimidate with words and appearance, and you should be the same."

Helen looked up. "Wait…what is all this for, anyway? Why all this stuff? What's so important about…about Scions, anyhow?"

Hel chuckled dryly. "I was wondering when you'd ask that." She said. "Do you know what a Titan is?"

"Some kind of Greek predecessor to the gods." Helen said.

"Very good…but the term encompasses more than the Dodekatheon Titans." Hel said.

"All pantheons have Titans, giant behemoths who would dominate and destroy this world, given the chance. Long ago, we gods sealed them away. But they have escaped…have been escaping. Their children, the titanspawn, aid them and seek to free all the Titans. It is the purpose of you Scions, you blessed mortals, to fight the titanspawn, and help us seal the Titans away again."

Helen blinked.

"This all seems very…epic." Helen said

Hel smiled. "Well, you are an epic person." She said. "Though rarely born, Scions have great power, and they work together to serve their parents." She waved a hand dismissively. "No matter that Odin is a hypocrite, or the Dodekatheon are pompous, or the Loa are mad. No matter our differences, we gods all share a common goal. We must defeat the Titans and their spawn."

"So you want me to go out and kick butt?" Helen asked.

Hel laughed. "In a way. It is in your nature. You will need little instruction, as long as you are looking."

"What, you won't help me?" Helen asked.

"I _am_ helping you, child." Hel said. She gestured at the knife and mask. "All this is my aid. The ghost Sven: I have taught him of your world, and made sure he can drive an automobile. He will be a good servant. I cannot be here always to guide your hand. I was barely able to come here now."

"Why?" Helen asked.

Hel leaned close. "We buried the Titans, and the seals to their prisons lay deep in the earth. When they broke through, they marred the underworld. I said my domain was glorious, and I spoke truth---but for the past several decades it has been a tumult. Holes have been ripped through it—and souls are escaping. The dead walk the earth, and not just those from my domain. I meant to come for you a year earlier, if not two. But I have had my hands full."

"So you want me to help fix it?"

Hel's face was deadly serious, dark and frightening. "Exactly."

Helen's mother reached into the bosom of her dress, and pulled out a piece of paper. She handed it to Helen, who opened it. Written in brown ink (or what she hoped was ink) was a name: Fortlest.

"This is a town in Pennsylvania—ghosts of mine have escaped there—actively escaped, not simply gotten lost. I want you to send them back, and keep more from getting out."

"What? How?" Helen asked.

"You will find a way." Hel gestured to Sven, and he came forward.

"Take my daughter home, make sure she is safe. She is your Mistress now."

"Yes, my Queen." Sven said. "He motioned Helen to rise to her feet. She followed him towards the door, but suddenly turned back to her mother.

"Wait, wait…" She said. "This won't work. I can't go to Pennsylvania, I don't have a car."

Hel looked confused. "Yes you do. It's a sedan."

"That's my Dad's car, and he uses it to get to work. Why I have no idea, New York is not a city meant for cars…but he won't let me take it, and he's sure not gonna let me go on a road trip anyway."

Hel looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Don't worry." She said. "I will talk to him."

Hel gestured to Sven again, and the ghost led Helen out the door.

TBC

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	4. Two Days

Chapter Four – Two Days

Helen walked home with Sven trailing behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed that no one noticed him, and he affected nothing. Streetlights shone through him, and a daschund on a leash waddled through his leg.

"Can you touch things?" Helen asked, when they'd almost reached the apartment building. "Can people ever see you?"

"I can manipulate objects if I try." Sven replied gruffly. "But I am not strong enough to make myself visible to mortal eyes."

"Well I can see you, so that's fine." Helen said. She walked into the lobby, ignored the dozing doorman, and punched the elevator button for her floor.

"We haven't got a third bed, but you can use the couch." She remarked to Sven.

The old man looked unhappy when she said this.

"I don't sleep." He said.

"Really?" Helen said. "Not even if you wanted to?"

"I'm dead." Sven replied. "I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. This shade is a mockery of what my body was."

"Oh." Helen said. The elevator dinged, and she and Sven walked in. The doors rolled shut, at the elevator ascended.

Helen started sniggering.

"What is it?" Sven asked.

"You." Helen said. "I mean, you've been screwed over. Dead people are screwed. Necrophilia." Helen giggled. "It's funny."

Sven's eyes narrowed.

"Your words are heartless." He said.

"Well tough cookies." Helen said. "You work for me, right? So tolerate me and grow a backbone. I thought Vikings were supposed to be butch."

Sven looked angry, but he didn't speak.

The elevator opened, and Helen walked twenty feet to her door, trailed by Sven. Quietly, she let herself in. She held the door open for Sven, but he ignored it and walked through the wall.

"Spoilsport." She whispered. Then she sighed.

"Look, I'm not trying to piss you off. I'm just saying what I'm thinking. If I wanted to bother you I could really say some heartless things. Bad enough to make you cry ghost tears, I bet."

"You are your mother's daughter, through and through." Sven remarked sardonically.

"I'm going to ignore your tone, and take that as a compliment." Helen said. She hoped she could, anyway. Her mother had been beyond anything she'd ever imagined. She had things Helen always dreamed of having. Superiority. A cool attitude. Utter self-collection.

But at the same time, her mother had scared the shit out of her.

Helen tried to dispel her thoughts, and frowned at Sven.

"Even if you don't sleep, you should stay in the living room." She whispered. "You can't skulk around my room the whole night. I won't be able to sleep if I'm being watched by a hairy dead Viking."

Sven bowed his head. "As you wish, Miss." He walked down the hall and into the living room.

Helen crept into her room. Her Dad might not get up if he heard noises—more likely cringe in his bed—but he was a light sleeper, and Helen didn't want to risk it.

Slowly, Helen peeled off her clothes and tossed them on the floor. She pulled on her pajamas again, and dropped her bits of jewelry into the lacquer box—except the bone necklace. Bitter Coward, her mother had called it.

Shuffling quietly to the bathroom, Helen scrubbed off her eye makeup, and brushed her teeth again for good measure.

She stared at her face in the harsh fluorescent light, and scratched at a scab. Blood welled up on her cheek in a circle. She dabbed at it with her finger, then licked her finger clean.

Her bad acne was a sign of divine intervention. Helen would have laughed, but it was one of those things that wasn't really funny. There always seemed to be a lot of those.

Helen switched off the light, and walked back to her room. She picked up her black satchel, and took out the mask and the long knife.

Hidden Beauty. And a…a had sex. Worst name for a knife ever. But it was still a big knife.

Helen took a cotton t-shirt from her dresser drawer, and wrapped it around the knife and its leather sheath. Then she rifled through her closet until her found an empty shoebox. The mask went into that, and both box and rolled t-shirt went under the bed.

Not the world's safest place, but her father didn't come into her room much. And she should be going on a road trip soon anyway. Once Hel talked to her Dad.

Oh yeah. _That _was sure to go well. Helen imagined her dad pissing himself in broad daylight. He probably wouldn't be able to talk straight for weeks.

Helen crawled under her covers, and shut her eyes.

The next morning was surprisingly uneventful. Helen woke up late, and first wondered if it had all been a dream. That was disproved when she saw Bitter Coward still strung around her neck, and Sven slouching in a corner of the living room.

Helen got dressed, as she usually did, in an outfit composed of skirt, leggings, shirt, and some kind of fishnet apparel, all mostly black. She left her thick, scraggly black hair hanging loose, and put makeup around her dark eyes. She had reached first for her foundation, to hide her pimples, but then looked in the mirror and decided otherwise. Fuck society. If all this was real, then her zits were something to be proud of.

Thomas Cole had already gone to work, so Helen fixed herself a cup of black coffee and a piece of toast with strawberry jam. This was the usual summer routine, once Helen had been old enough to stay at home by herself, and not needed day camps to baby-sit her. Her Dad would go to work early, as he did every five or six days a week, and Helen was left to do as she pleased.

Only this summer, her dad would leave pamphlets from his alma mater on the kitchen table every morning. Helen tossed them into the paper-recycling bin.

"You are not interested in what your father leaves for you?' Sven asked. Helen noticed that as she munched her toast, he would glance at her repeatedly.

Helen scoffed. "I'm not becoming an IRS auditor." She said. "That's beneath me."

"So what would you do?" Sven asked.

"I don't know." Helen said. "I'm not that interested in college. I could always enroll later. Opening up a Goth club would be so much cooler. Or starting a clothing company, maybe. Something I was the boss of. I could do my own bookkeeping, it wouldn't be too hard."

Helen smirked. "But why worry about that? This Scion gig sounds pretty neat."

"I don't think covertly helping to save the world from Titans pays in currency." Sven said.

"Then I'll have to make it pay another way." Helen put her cup and plate in the dishwasher, and wiped her hands.

"I'm bored. Let's go window shopping."

It turned out Sven hadn't seen much of New York City, though he'd been told about it. So Helen dragged him up and down the island. Sven didn't care about the clothes stores, looked unhappy at the restaurants, grunted at the tourist attractions, and stared for a good half hour at TVs set up in an electronics store.

Helen enjoyed herself, though by late afternoon her steps were dragging. Sven, while not exactly happy, seemed unaffected.

They took the subway, and arrived home just as her Dad was putting the mashed potato mix into water. The man didn't cook very well unless it was instant or microwavable. Helen didn't care—if she got sick of it, there was always take-out. This was a city of take-out.

They sat down to eat, while Sven stood in a corner, invisible to her father. Helen looked at her father's face for any unusual worries or discomfort, but he seemed relatively calm.

"Did anybody special call you, or meet with you today?"

Her father swallowed a mouthful of green beans and frowned. "No. Lunch meetings happen on Wednesdays. And you know I don't give people my work number."

"E-mail? Maybe a fax?" Helen asked, grasping at straws. "Nobody you've known in the past contacted you?"

"No." Her father said coolly, then changed the subject. "We found a lawyer today who tried to list buying his mother a new car as a charity expense. Not as openly greedy as others we've seen, but the man _is _worth—"

Helen searched her father's face. He wasn't lying. Hel hadn't talked to him yet.

Helen set her jaw. Her mother had better, because Helen wasn't going to work to get her father's permission. She barely wanted to talk to the man, though she proceeded to make small talk about the charity car, and pose how the lawyer could have gotten around it in more subtle ways.

All the time Sven stood in the corner, and said nothing.

After dinner, Helen looked up Fortlest, PA on mapquest. By car it was roughly sixteen hours from Manhattan. Helen frowned.

"I'll do it. But make it happen." She muttered quietly, though no one was in the room.

The next day was more or less the same, except that instead of walking around the city, Helen and Sven loafed around the apartment. Sven was fascinated by the TV, and watched four hours of The History Channel until he was told to turn it off. Helen took out the mask and the _hadseax_, and looked at them in greater detail. She asked Sven if the _hadseax_ was well made. He examined it, actually lifting it in his translucent hands, and the response was positive.

"Very much so. Especially in comparison to this dull thing your mother gave me." He gestured to the plain ghost sword strapped to his belt. "But I can't say I approve of the tiny skulls etched into the hilt."

Helen smiled. "I like it. And I like my other gifts."

"Relics."

"My relics. I should go and try them out. The basement of this building is pitch black, I could put the mask on in there."

Sven frowned. "These relics are not toys, Mistress! You should use them only when you have to, not for your own amusement."

Helen rolled her eyes. "Fine, be a killjoy. I better get to use them soon, then."

"I'm sure your mother will see to it." Sven said.

Helen ordered Chinese food before her father got home, and kept it warm in the oven until he showed up. Once again, he hadn't called or talked to anyone out of the ordinary, and he was no more spineless than normal. Discouraged, Helen dug into the beef chow mein with her chopsticks, while her father shoveled rice into his mouth with a fork. Sven stared openly at them as they ate.

That night, Helen dreamed. She stood at the edge of a cliff, above a swirling lake of darkness. She was wearing a white dress and bodice made of fine satin, but the cloth was thin, and smelled like mildew. The _hadseax_ was strapped to her waist, with the same soft white cord that bound her bodice closed. She also wore her necklace, and mask…yet the darkness remained pitch black. The cliff was gray and brittle, like shale, and the drop was sheer. The dark below her was very, very cold. She stood there for what felt like eternity, staring into the void.

Helen woke slowly, without fear or discomfort. She stumbled out of bed and headed to the bathroom. But something stopped her short in the hallway.

Her father's keyring was on the table by the front door. His car keys were attached to it. Her father always drove his car to work, because he hated subways and buses.

It was ten am. Her father should have left for work already. As this thought entered Helen's mind, a sharp odor reached her nose. It was pungent, and metallic.

As if in a trance, in spite of her heart suddenly beating ten times faster, Helen walked down the hall to her father's room, and opened the door.

He lay on his back in the middle of the double bed. The sheets, blankets and pillows were covered in blood, already drying from crimson to brown. His limbs were askew, and the blankets were twisted, as if he'd writhed uncontrollably. His face was thrown to the side, frozen in an expression of horror. Thick, congealed blood crusted around his nose and mouth, almost black against his chalk white skin.

The next thing Helen knew, she was curled up in the bathroom, shrieking uncontrollably, while Sven shouted. "What? What? _What_?!"

TBC

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	5. Road Trip

Thanks for the reviews, no matter how infrequent. Getting at least one for every chapter is a good feeling.

Little note: when I first saw a picture of Seth Farrow (NPC Scion of Set) in the Scion core, I thought: 'He may be a sociopath, but he sure looks handsome! In a ragged, evil sort of way, anyway'. So I gave Helen a dream about him that meant absolutely nothing to the plot.

Of course, in Demigod Seth has become a snakeman. So much for his rugged good looks.

* * *

**Chapter Five – Road Trip**

While some say otherwise, New York City does sleep. Not entirely, (what city ever does?) but in the wee hours of the morning, between three-thirty and five am, the island of Manhattan dozes.

It was in this period of more deserted streets and quieter sounds that the beige sedan left the city and headed across the George Washington Bridge, to the road that would lead through New Jersey and into Pennsylvania. In the trunk was a large bag with enough clothes to last a week, plus jewelry, toiletries and a dog-eared Orson Scott Card novel. There were also a couple of household tools, like a hammer and wrench.

Helen's black satchel was wedged between the two front seats. It had her wallet, phone and identification. It also had Hidden Beauty, carefully wrapped in a piece of cloth. Directions to Fortlest, printed off mapquest, were wedged under the parking brake.

Helen was wearing Bitter Coward, as she had been, and the _hadseax _was strapped to her belt, tucked under her skirt. She wore her black leather biker jacket, and a pair of thin gloves without fingers. Her face was very pale.

Sven sat in the passenger seat, looking the same as he always did. He didn't say anything. They hadn't spoken since leaving the apartment.

The car drove in utter silence, until half way through New Jersey. As they passed a field smelling vaguely of sewage, Helen spoke.

"She killed him, didn't she?"

Sven looked at Helen. Her gaze was on the road, but her voice was full of bitterness.

"Of course she did." Sven said. His tone was light, almost matter-of-fact. "How else would it be so easy for you?"

That got Helen's attention. She turned her head to look at Sven, eyes blazing.

"Easy!?" She spat. "My Dad had an aneurysm! He woke up in the middle of the night and bled to death! How is any of this easy for me?"

Sven narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, forgive me, _Mistress_." He said. "Your mother barely educated me in modern Vinland culture, but we seem to be traveling away from the city in your father's car, with his apartment and money willed to you, and his body buried and everything paid for, all less than three days after his death. This could be nothing but the work of the Queen of the Underworld, and it has all been done to speed you on his mission."

"I never asked for my Dad to die!" Helen snapped. "He may have been a spineless fatso who thought I was a freak, but I didn't want him dead!"

"And yet he is." Sven crossed his arms across his chest. "All to your advantage as a Scion."

"Oh yeah? Well I never really asked to be a Scion, did I?" Helen squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again.

"Why am I doing this for a Mother I barely know?" She said miserably.

"Because she is the cold, horrible death of the Aesir," Sven said. "Daughter of the traitorous Loki, and Queen of the cowardly and unlucky! And if you refuse her, she'll bury you up to your neck in a road paved with skulls."

There was a pause. "…Good point."

Helen focused on the road, then suddenly slammed her hand against the top of the wheel.

"Sven, get in the trunk."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Go sit in the trunk!" Helen cried, almost hysterical.

Sven passed through the front seat and then the back seat, until he vanished from sight.

As quietly as she could, Helen began to weep. Fat tears ran down her cheeks, over her waterproof eye makeup and down the sides of her face. She didn't bother to wipe them away, though she blinked her eyes rapidly when the road became too blurry to see.

This was like some Lifetime drama. One parent dead, which fulfilled the other's wishes, and the kid was caught up in the middle. Yet again, Helen almost laughed at the situation. Angrily, she ripped a tissue from the glove compartment and dabbed her face dry. She wasn't one of those Goths who cried in corners. Nor was she the opposite, thinking crying was a weakness.

But crying for the death of Thomas Cole most certainly was. What was the point in crying for a father who'd never loved her? He'd just tolerated her, because her mother threatened him with God-knows-what if he didn't. And the only things he liked about her were the things she got from him—good with numbers, a knack for taxes.

Her mother, on the other hand, liked everything else about her. But everything else about her was like her mother.

No. Helen refused to believe that. She was more than just two people pushed together. She was her own person, too.

And heck…this Scion thing sounded fun to her. Adventure and fighting people, getting them to do what she wanted. That's why she was on this road, right? She cared about doing this. Otherwise she'd be back in the apartment, refusing to work for a woman who'd murdered a man in his bed.

But then, did this make her heartless? Helen wasn't sure. She decided not to make any judgments about herself yet. She had a feeling this whole road trip and subsequent mission were going to be very character building.

Helen drove through New Jersey, and into the very thick and wide state of Pennsylvania, where the majority of their journey would commence. She listened to an old Matchbox 20 CD for a bit, but otherwise the drive was silent. It was a little past nine am when Sven came out of the trunk.

"You should let me drive."

"Helen looked at him blearily. "Huh?"

"You've been driving for over five hours, and you didn't sleep much before we left. Let me drive."

Helen looked confused.

Sven rolled his eyes. "I had basic driver's education in the underworld." He said. "There was an assumption that I might have to play chauffeur."

"Oh." Helen said. She _was_ feeling rather sleepy. "Alright then."

She pulled over by the side of the highway, and got into the passenger seat. Sven floated into the driver's seat, and putting the car into drive, maneuvered it back onto the highway.

Helen curled up in the passenger seat until she was comfortable, and drifted off.

She was awakened by a furious tapping on her shoulder. Sven had one hand on the wheel, and was prodding her with the other.

"Helen! We're being followed by a police automobile!"

The sound of sirens suddenly came to Helen's attention.

"Sht!" She said. "You have to pull over! What were you doing?"

"I didn't do anything, I was simply driving!" Sven protested. Helen's face went white.

"Oh, no." She said. "You're invisible, he didn't see anyone sitting in the driver's seat! Quick, can you keep driving with me sitting on you?"

"Yes, y—" Sven didn't finish his sentence before Helen climbed into the driver's seat. She went right through Sven, and the tops of his legs rose above hers on the seat.

"That's messed up." Helen said, making a face. She held her feet three inches above the brake and gas, and placed her hands gently on the wheel.

Sven parked the car along the side of the road. The cop did the same behind them, and got out of his car.

"Don't distract me." Helen said.

"Yes, Miss."

Helen rolled down the window, and the cop walked over. He looked serious, but there was also a faint expression of confusion on his face.

"License and registration." He said. Helen took them out of her purse, and handed them to the cop.

He looked at them for a moment, then back up at her. "Why are you in Pennsylvania?"

"Road trip." Helen said. "I'm visiting cousins."

"Were you leaning over in the seat? Not looking at the road?"

"No sir, I was driving normally." Helen said.

"I didn't see… I didn't see your head in the window when you passed me." The cop said.

"I tend to hunch over the wheel." Helen said.

The cop looked at her for a long moment. Helen kept her face blank.

The cop blinked, then scribbled something down on a piece of paper. "I'm letting you off with a warning." He said. He handed Helen's license and registration back through the window. "Sit up straight when you drive."

"Yes sir." Helen said.

She rolled up the window as the cop walked away, and drove back onto the road.

"That was close." She remarked to Sven, now sitting in the passenger seat. "Maybe I should drive from now on."

Sven shrugged. "I can still drive when you're sitting in the driver's seat." He said. "It's only my hands and feet that I make corporeal."

Helen pinched the bridge of her nose. "Driving straight there would certainly beat stopping by the side of the road to sleep in the car." She muttered. "How long was I out, anyway?"

"Several hours. It's past noon."

"I'd like to stop for lunch, if you don't mind. No wait, you always do. You just won't say."

Sven shot Helen a dirty look, as the car pulled off the highway into an exit that sported a nearby Sbarro's.

Helen had two pieces of pizza for lunch, washing it down with a bottle of water. Then she drove until six, when she stopped at a diner for a burger. Sven didn't go inside.

"I do envy your ability to eat." Sven said, once she got back in the car. "I wish I was still alive."

"But you're not." Helen said. "And the more you're unhappy about it, the more ironic and ridiculous you'll be. Try accepting what you are."

"But I can't!" Sven protested.

"Then try harder. C'mon! Be upbeat!" Helen grinned widely. Sven gave her another dirty look.

Helen drove for another two hours before Sven took over, and Helen curled up in the driver's seat. Sitting in Sven really wasn't a problem. She couldn't feel him, and unless her eyes were open, she couldn't see him. So she slept with no trouble, and no more cops pulled them over.

Around eight am the next morning they pulled off the highway, and Helen woke up to take over.

"I had a weird dream." She said.

Sven raised his eyebrows as he slid into the passenger seat. "Oh?"

"I was molesting a man in a black cowboy hat."

Sven looked appalled. "Why in the name of the All-Father would you do that?!"

"I was dreaming, okay? Anyway, he was cute, in an 'I'm evil-and-set-houses-on-fire' sort of way. And I think he was molesting me back."

"I don't want to hear about this." Sven grimaced.

Helen sniffed. "Fine. But I bet your dreams aren't half as interesting."

"I don't sleep!"

"Oh, yeah. Heh-heh."

Roughly an hour later, they pulled into the small town of Fortlest.

TBC

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	6. Fortlest

Thanks for the reviews. Hope you enjoy this chapter…it's about as action-packed as this story gets.

Chapter Six - Fortlest

The first thing that Helen noticed about Fortlest was that it was small. Helen had grown up in New York City and rarely taken vacations to the country. A town that had only five commercial streets around the City Hall, and boasted barely a thousand inhabitants struck her as bizarre. The edges of the town were dominated by smatterings of lower middle-class suburban houses, and further on was farmland and forest.

The second thing Helen noticed was that it was quiet. It was a weekday morning, to be fair, and people would be at work, but the streets seemed oddly deserted. And there was a chill in the air.

"See any ghosts?" Helen asked, as they drove down Main Street.

"You'd see them as well as I." Sven remarked quietly. Helen had learned after three days that Sven's default stance was 'stoic silence' but he seemed withdrawn now.

Helen pulled into a gas station, and filled up the tank. She left Sven in the car when she went in to pay.

"Good morning." She said cheerfully to the man at the counter. The gas station attendant looked at her oddly, sizing up her clothes and her face. After a moment he nodded.

"Morning." He said. His face was tan and wrinkled, his mustache was grey with bits of white, and his eyes were set back in his head under the green baseball cap he wore. "Pump 4, that'll be thirty-sixteen."

Helen paid, looking around the small shop at the candy and cigarettes. "Is there a hotel near here? I'm going to be in Fortlest a few days."

The man shook his head. "There's a Motel 6 about two miles away, not part of the town proper. We don't get many visitors."

"Odd." Helen said, giving her best smile. "This seems like a lovely town."

"Yeah, it's great." The gas station attendant said, unenthusiastically. But there was more than lack of emotion in his voice. Helen perked up her ears.

"So there's nothing weird about this place?"

The gas station attendant gave her a funny look, then scowled. "No. Nothing's wrong."

A lie. Flat out. Helen didn't quite know how she knew, but the man was lying.

"You sure?" She said. "I heard there was some stuff going on up here—"

"What, so you came to check it out?" The man suddenly snapped. "Thought there was something 'cool' up here? You think it's a fun house!?"

"No," Helen began coolly. "I—"

"I'm sick of you kids, coming down here and making fun of our troubles." The man continued, glaring openly, crows' feet gathered in the corners of his eyes.

"Be quiet!" Helen demanded, throwing the force of her voice behind her words, and giving her most intimidating stare.

The man instantly shut up. He was still glaring, though.

"I was just asking." Helen said coldly. "What is going on here. Tell me."

The man looked at the floor, then back up at Helen.

"I don't rightly know." He said. "The ones that do won't say. But something's odd."

He wasn't lying. Helen nodded. "Thank you." She turned to leave.

"You should get out of here." The attendant called after her, irritation in his voice. "It's none of your business."

"Quite the contrary." Helen said as she stalked across the lot to the car.

Helen eventually parked at a meter spot, and told Sven to stand guard, and subtly put quarters in the meter whenever it ran low.

"And tell me if you see any ghosts." She added, looking thoughtful. "Do they even walk around in daylight?"

Sven looked at her like she was mentally deficient. "_I'm _walking around in daylight!" he said, the first time he'd raised his voice above a mutter since they'd arrived. "These ghosts are the same as me!"

"They're Vikings too?" Helen asked.

Sven scowled. "No." He mumbled. "They're probably from this region. Ghosts like to go to where they used to live."

"Then we'll look at houses later." Helen said. She walked down the street.

For the rest of the day, Helen prowled the streets of the small town, questioning and (inadvertently) harassing people. She would go into stores, make small talk and ask about the state of the town. She was met with fear, overt lies and reluctance to talk, which prompted Helen to intimidate people into answering. This worked only some of the time, and at one point Helen was thrown out of a convenience store for yelling at the cashier.

By late afternoon, Helen was getting stares from everyone she saw, a few of them openly hostile. But there weren't that many people to give them. The streets had been fairly crowded at noon and three pm, but the rushes lasted roughly a half hour before the town looked deserted again. Shopkeepers stayed indoors, and Helen saw no one so much as take a cigarette break in back of any building.

She went back to the car, where Sven dutifully sat in the passenger seat, bag of quarters at the ready.

"Seen any ghosts?" She asked.

"No."

"Me neither." Helen said. "But this place is definitely fucked up."

Sven looked at her balefully.

Helen raised her fingers and began ticking them off. "One. No one likes to be outside here. Two, not many people know what's going on, only that something's wrong. Three, the people who know _really _don't want to talk. Four, the people who _did_ talk said that people on the streets at night were followed into their homes, or that intruders broke into their homes. And five, someone saw a statue walking down someplace called Cranberry Street."

"A statue?"

"That's what they said, a statue from the town hall. So I went to the town hall, and there's this statue of one of the town's old sheriffs, from like, when Fortlest was first founded. But there didn't seem to be anything weird about it. Just stone."

"And no ghosts."

"No ghosts." Helen confirmed. "My Mother never specified how many there were, did she?"

"No."

"Well, that sucks." Helen looked out at the street, and frowned. "It's barely six pm, and half these places are closed up. Look, the only building with bright lights is the McDonald's franchise."

"That bar is open." Sven said, pointing far down the street. "May I go?"

"What? Why?" Helen asked.

"I have been sitting in a car all day. And they will probably have a television."

Helen shrugged. "Fair point. Okay, you go chill in the bar. I'm gonna get some dinner at McDonald's, then scope out the suburbs and stop at Cranberry Road."

"That seems a wise plan, Mistress."

Helen smirked. "Of course it is."

"Only be careful."

Helen nodded. "Yeah, yeah, sure."

Sven went to the bar, and Helen ate a quarter pounder, some chicken McNuggets and a large fries. She figured she needed energy, even if it wasn't real food. Besides, grease wasn't that big a problem anymore. Her zits were a good thing. Helen smiled at the thought.

She drove the sedan out of the town, and into the scattered suburbia. She passed two churches, one new, one old, and an elementary school. Otherwise it was just houses, often separated by chunks of forest.

She didn't see anything. But as it got darker, Helen noticed that the streetlights were few and far between, and as she peered through the window at one ahead of her, she saw that it was broken.

Creepy. She thought. But then she snapped her fingers.

Hidden Beauty! Helen switched off the headlights of her car, plunging the street into near-blackness.

Helen pulled the mask out of her satchel, and fit it onto her face, hooking the straps under her hair.

The effect was impossible to describe. She had merely put the mask against her face in the coffee shop, but now it was attached, and slowly the world became visible. Everything was still dark, but she could see it distinctly, in shades of black on black.

"Whoa." She whispered.

She got out of the car, and looked around. Everything was sharp, and clear. It was almost dizzying. And the moon was bright in the sky.

The moon! Helen's head snapped up, and her eyes focused on the egg-shaped orb. Her mother had told her that if she concentrated, she could see a birds-eye view of everything around her reflected in the moon.

Suddenly, Helen heard a scream. She tore her eyes from the moon. The sound had come from down the street.

As Helen raced down the road, boots thudding against the pavement, the scream sounded again. It was coming from behind a house. Helen nipped along the side and through the backyard to the source—another house, behind twenty yards of no man's land.

Helen ran to the house, and saw that a back window had been shattered, light from inside streaming through. Helen crept forward and peeked through the frame.

There was a woman with her hands over her head, curled up in a corner of the kitchen. Cabinets were open, and food was scattered everywhere.

Standing at the table, stirring what looked like a cup of coffee, was a translucent man in tattered pants, large work boots and a worn button-up shirt.

Helen winced. What this must look like to the woman—a spoon stirring a cup of coffee, all by itself.

The ghost looked up, suddenly, and saw Helen in the window. He did a double take.

"Whoa!" He said. "You can see me?!"

He dropped the spoon. The woman shrieked again.

_Why is no one coming to help her?_ Helen wondered. _Probably scared shitless._

"Yes, I can. What are you doing?" Helen asked the ghost. The woman made a sort of gasping noise at the sound of Helen's voice, and looked up. But she didn't move.

The ghost glared. "I'm making coffee." He said. The woman gave no indication that she'd heard him. "I always liked to make coffee, when I was alive."

"Well, you're dead now." Helen said.

"Yeah, no shit!" The ghost snapped. He stepped closer to the window, and suddenly his face blanched—as much a ghost's face could, anyway.

"Who are you?' He breathed.

Helen stood straight, although the window began at her collarbone. "My name is Helen." She said. "And I've come to bring you home."

The ghost's face twisted into rage. "You're one of her servants!" He screamed. He grabbed the coffee mug and hurled it at Helen. She ducked, but it splashed her with hot coffee. She winced at the sting.

"Scion, actually." Helen said. "The daughter of your boss. And she says come home."

The ghost was backing away. "This was my house, eighty years ago." He said. "I have nothing else. I can't do anything. I can't touch anyone. My sons can't hear me. And now you want to bring me back to that pit!!!"

"It's where you belong!" Helen said. The woman screamed again, and covered her head.

Careful not to touch the broken glass, Helen pushed up the window sash, and started crawling through the frame.

The ghost stumbled backwards. "No!" He cried. He reached for a blender to throw at Helen, but his hand went right through it. Cursing, the ghost stumbled out of the kitchen. Helen followed him. The lady on the ground didn't move, frozen in terror.

Helen found herself in a living room. The ghost looked at her, and suddenly Helen locked eyes with him.

The ghost whimpered, wide-eyed, but he stood still. Helen smiled. He was looking at her face, and he couldn't move.

"Come with me." She said to the ghost. "Show me how you got h—"

Helen had reached out to grab the ghost by the arm, but her hand went right through him.

She tried again. But she couldn't touch him. Forgetting herself, she looked down at the translucent arm.

The connection broke. The ghost smiled, and ran.

"No!" Helen chased after him, but he ran right through the front door. She fumbled with the lock, and burst out after him.

She saw him running down the street. Grabbing the hilt of the _hadseax_, she unsheathed the knife and scrambled after the ghost. He turned a corner, and then—

Then another ghost stepped out into the street. And this one Helen knew. The clothes weren't exactly the same, but the face was accurate enough. This was the sheriff, whose statue she'd seen in the town hall.

He was walking towards her. Helen stopped running, and waited until he was within speaking range.

"You have to go home." She said. She pointed the _hadseax_ at him. "All of you."

The ghost looked grave. "We don't have to do anything." He said. "We aren't bound to bodies, and more's the pity. We've lost everything, but hell has been torn to chunks, and we six escaped that bitch with the rotting face. We won't return."

Only six ghosts? Well, that was better than twenty.

"You'll wish you had when I'm through with you!" Helen said menacingly. But the ghost only laughed.

"What are you going to do? You can't touch us, and no one but you can see us—" The ghost spread his hands. "—unless I do this."

Suddenly the ghost seemed sharper, less translucent. Helen heard a gasp from a nearby darkened house.

"So they can see you now. But I _always_ can." Helen spat. "I'll find you again. You can't stay here…because I won't let you."

She turned on her heel, and walked away.

Sven was watching baseball from a corner booth when Helen stomped into the bar. Her _hadseax_ was hidden under her skirt, but the side of her head was dripping coffee.

The few heads in the bar turned, but Helen didn't care. She motioned at Sven, and walked back out the door.

Outside, Helen and Sven walked back to the sedan.

"We're gonna kip in the car, and formulate a plan." She said.

"What plan? And why the car? I thought you said there was a Motel 6—"

"I wouldn't deign to wipe my nose in a Motel 6." Helen declared angrily. "And we are making a plan because I am not beaten. I refuse to be humiliated. Those ghosts are going straight back to hell, even if I have to drag them there by their fucking bootstraps!"

TBC (only one more chapter to go!)

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	7. Down the Rabbit Hole

Thanks for the reviews, everyone. It's good for an author to know people are reading. Much appreciated.

Now, the final chapter.

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Chapter Seven – Down the Rabbit Hole

Helen ended up driving them to a 24-hour restaurant so she could wash the coffee out of her hair, and bush her teeth. Afterwards, she drove back to Fortlest and parked the sedan behind some trees on the side of the road.

There, Helen explained everything that had happened. Sven nodded as she spoke.

"I can understand their logic. They are spirits, but they wish for what they once had."

"They didn't fucking listen to me." Helen grumbled. "How did my mother do it?"

Sven gave Helen a baleful look. "You think I know the magics of the Queen of the Underworld? It was her domain, and she could do what she liked within it. Here, on earth, she might not have that same power. No doubt why she sent you."

"Wonderful." Helen stretched her legs. "So we've got six angsty ghosts who won't go home, and no way to even touch them unless they decide to become solid."

"Some of them may not be able to do even that." Sven said. "Depending on how powerful they are, they might be able to touch things only for a brief time, or all the time. Or they could become visible to the human eye."

"I'm gonna estimate that since no one mentioned seeing anything but the sheriff's 'statue', he's probably the only one who can do the last bit."

Helen put her feet on her seat, and wrapped her arms around her legs.

"My Mother said the Titans broke the underworld, and that's how the ghosts got out." Helen mused. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"I have seen some of it." Sven said. "Gaping holes torn open deep beneath the earth, also affecting the spiritual realms. The ghosts will have escaped from a hole of that sort, which leads to the surface."

"And we don't even know where the hole is." Helen said morosely.

"Get some sleep." Sven said. "You may think better in the morning."

Helen grumbled, but curled herself into a ball, and dozed off.

She awoke to the chirping of birds, and sunlight streaming onto her face. Sven was sitting in the backseat, looking out the window.

"Gotta piss." Helen mumbled, and stumbled out of the car into the thick foliage. When she had finished, she walked back, stretching her legs as she did so.

"Can't touch 'em, can't magic 'em, don't know where they came from…" Helen muttered. She squinted up at the sky, the sun peeking through fluffy clouds and the moon in the corner—

Helen froze.

"Sven!" She shouted, racing for the car on wobbly legs. Sven popped his head out of the car door.

"What?"

"My mask, the mask!" Helen said, opening the driver's door and fumbling with her satchel. "I could see this whole town if I looked into the moon—"

"But the moon's gone down." Sven said.

"No it hasn't, it's still there!" Helen hooked the mask on.

"Wait, wait, slow down." Sven held up a hand. "You should do this in the middle of town, so you get a perfect circular map."

"Good idea." Helen slid into the car and buckled her seatbelt. You are good for something."

Sven smiled wryly.

In a parking lot near the town hall, Helen rolled down the sunroof. Standing up until her whole torso was sticking out of the top of the car, she raised her masked face to the sky, and looked at the moon. She concentrated.

It was like she'd been flipped upside down. Suddenly she was flying, the sky above her and the town of Fortlest below her. And if she tried, she could focus in on any given area, like a zooming in with a camera lens.

Helen began to scan Fortlest. There was nothing odd-looking in the town—on the streets at least, since she couldn't look inside buildings—but as she scanned the suburbs, something caught her eye.

"Look." She said, although she realized all Sven saw was her pointing at the sky.

"What?"

"There's a church…it's far back from the street, and it's got a graveyard next to a big chunk of forest. The graveyard…it feels weird."

Helen zoomed in, the headstones and iron rails magnified. "I think it's there."

She put her chin down, and the world abruptly righted itself. She pulled off the mask. "Let's go."

They drove to the church. Parking the car on the curb, they walked up the long path to the church. The moment they stepped off the sidewalk. Sven shivered.

"There's definitely something here."

They walked to the church, which looked deserted, then went around the side. The graveyard was surrounded by a spiked rail fence, but it only came up to Helen's waist. With a bit of maneuvering, she managed to jump it.

Helen and Sven wandered through the churchyard plot. It was bigger than normal church graveyards, but none of the markers bore a date sooner than 1910.

"Creepy." Helen muttered to herself. She turned past a row of gravestones, and nearly caught her foot in a hole.

"Godda—" Helen's face went white as her toes turned cold, and she yanked her foot away so hard she toppled over. But she found herself in a crouching position.

"Can I not fall over? That's useful." She muttered, but her eyes were on the small hole, barely big enough for a rabbit, that stood behind a headstone.

Helen reached out her hand, and put her fingertips into the hole. The temperature in the hole dropped abruptly two inches in, and it felt like her fingers were freezing.

Helen pulled her hand out. "Sven, I think I found it." She called.

The Viking ghost jogged over to Helen, and peered over her shoulder. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Yes, that's it." He said. Helen stood up.

"So the road to Hell is a rabbit hole." She mused. "Figures they'd come through in a small and ridiculous manner."

"Yes, wonderful." Sven said. "And now I'm going back to the car. Or better yet, the bar."

"What?" Helen said, outraged as Sven started walking away. "You're leaving me here? I still don't know how to put the ghosts back in!"

"You'll think of something." Sven called back. "But I can't stand it here."

"Why?"

Sven turned to face Helen, his face twisted in pain.

"It feels like it's calling me back!" He said, voice full of anguish. "It's cold, and I'm reminded that I'm dead."

"But you told me that you can't sleep or eat! You're _always_ reminded that you're de—" Helen stopped.

"Wait. That's it." She whispered.

"What is it?" Sven called.

"Get back to the car." Helen called jovially. "I've got an idea!"

Helen dropped Sven off at the bar. She knew he wouldn't want to see fellow ghosts banished back to hell.

Then she made a quick stop near what looked like a site for storing construction equipment, and stole something ten times heavier than she'd anticipated it would be. But she was still able to get it into the car.

Then she went back to the graveyard.

Once the sun had completely sunk in the sky, Helen put on Hidden Beauty, and strapped the _hadseax_ to the outside of her skirt.

Then, she started jumping on gravestones.

"_Where is your boy tonight? I hope he is a gentleman_!" She sang, not even trying to stay on key.

Using her boots and hands, she kicked up clods of grass and tipped grave markers on their sides. She felt the air grow cooler, and the wind began to blow harder, but she didn't stop.

She also kept singing shitty punk rock.

"—_get off my ass and call you, the meantime I'll sport my brand-new passion for waking up with pants off at four in the afternoo_—"

"Stop!"

Helen spun around. Six ghosts, headed by the sheriff, stood at the gate of the graveyard.

The sheriff looked furious

"You dare desecrate the graves of the dead?" He said.

Helen smiled. "Only to get your attention. I wasn't even sure you cared enough to come, but I'm glad you did. Don't worry, I'll put everything in order once you've gone back to hell."

"We can fix everything ourselves." One of the other ghosts snapped. "Nothing will make us go back."

Helen's expression grew murderous. She didn't lock eyes with any of the ghosts, but she stared at them as hard as she could, her face twisting. The ghosts shifted, unsettled, but did nothing else.

"You will not go back?" She intoned. Her voice low and deadly, frightening to hear.

"No." The sheriff said. "It's horrible there."

"Horrible?" Helen threw back her head and laughed, a loud, shrieking cackle. The ghosts felt a sudden uneasiness, as if there was a great joke being played on them, and they didn't know it.

Helen's head came back down, and he expression was deathly serious.

"You think the realm of the Queen is horrible?" She cried. "Every minute you spend on this earth will lead to a horror a thousand times worse! This is a land for the living, and in short time your pain will grow to unimaginable heights! Your power will wane, your desire for food, sleep, and the attention of the living will grow to unbearable agony, reach unimaginable heights! You will experience a suffering of the heart and mind that only the Earth can afford you, sharper than a thousand stings from the whips of Hel, and hotter than the fires of her deepest furnaces. You will freeze, you will cry, and you will never ever die. An eternity of pain awaits you here. Return to Hel, or you will _BURN. ON. EARTH_."

Helen finished. A rumble of thunder suddenly sounded in the background, and the darkness seemed to close in on the graveyard.

The sheriff was still, eyes wide and face empty. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out.

He took a step forward.

An hour later, a soaking wet Helen walked into the bar, and sat next to Sven in the far back, out of sight.

"It's raining out there." She said.

"You did it?" He asked.

Helen nodded.

"How?"

"I lied." Helen made a face. "At least, I think I lied. I told them that if they'd stayed here, it would become worse than the underworld to them."

"The believed you."

"I threw myself into it." Helen grinned. "They wouldn't have gone if I'd asked nicely, or even simply ordered them. And I couldn't fight them. So I intimidated them. I was a Queen, and they believed me."

"Very like your mother." Sven said. "How did you close up the hole?"

"Quick-dry cement." Helen said. "I stole some earlier today, and I poured it in and capped the hole with it. Then I…uh…told the cement to keep the door to the underworld closed. I hope that's enough. I couldn't think of anything magic to do."

"Stoppering the hole on a physical plane should have enough effect on the metaphysical." Sven said.

He looked troubled, but Helen didn't press. She knew why he was unhappy.

Instead, she stood up.

"We should probably get out of here as soon as possible. You drive first shift."

"Yes, Mistress."

THE END

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Well, that's it. I'm hope this backstory was an enjoyable read. The game itself was fun too (Helen ended up finding a giant hammer that could crush real food into ghost food, with the help of legend points. Sven was very happy).

Leave a review of you liked the story, or if you have any comments. And if there are any authors out there familiar with Changeling: The Lost…please write a fanfic set in that world. It's my favorite system in New World of Darkness, but no one's written about it. Likely I'll write something eventually…but I always enjoy a story better when I didn't think it up.

So if anyone's as passionate about 'Changeling: the Lost' as I am, spin a story. I'll certainly review it.


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